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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002447">Being No One, Going No Where</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi'>Startabi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Choking, DILF enERGY OMFG, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, Mentions of alcohol, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Reader Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Throne Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, dad bod boba, grouchy old man syndrome, the threesome is in the 5th chap btw, thigh biting, thigh riding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:34:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,740</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a waitress at a little cantina in Mos Espa--vastly curious about the mysterious stranger that comes in every few weeks...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Boba Fett/Reader, Boba Fett/You, Boba Fett/fem!reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>586</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>well...</p>
<p>here we are. dad fuckers all of US</p>
<p> </p>
<p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The graveyard shift you work at the cantina in Mos Espa each and every week, is…<em>dull</em>. To put it <em>nicely</em>. </p>
<p>Rarely anyone wants to work from sunset to the quiet hours just before the spidery fingers of dawn crawl over the horizon. And so, seeing as <em>you </em>are the fresh faced rookie, you’re stuck with the miserable task. You’re not even the <em>bartender</em> for Maker’s sake—just a stupid server girl who sits in the back until she’s summoned. To be fair, the <em>actual</em> bartender—Charlie—he isn’t so bad… </p>
<p>The thought of taking his job is…well, you’d feel kinda <em>guilty. </em>Trying to pay his way into the University on Naboo is no small task, and swiping that from under his nose for an extra handful of credits is shitter than wiping your nose on someone’s shoulder as they hug you. You can suffer for a little while longer. Just until you find a better paying job. </p>
<p>You sigh and slump into your seat, using your fingernail to scratch off the flaking red paint meant to cover the cheap plywood table. The one (and only) perk of this job you can rationally admit to, are the <em>people</em>. So many different folk, all with their weird mannerisms and gruff attitudes. Deep space captains, scruffy smugglers and bounty hunters alike. <em>That</em> part never gets dull.</p>
<p>You smirk in triumph as your nail hooks under a chunky piece of paint and peels it off with a satisfying crackle. </p>
<p>“<em>Hey!—“</em></p>
<p>You jump as Charlie’s mess of curly brown hair pops around the corner of the little back room placed just behind the barkeep. “Stop <em>messing </em>with the table. It’s like scolding a kriffing toddler.”</p>
<p>You stick your tongue out once his head snaps back around. “It’s not <em>my</em> fault there’s nothing to <em>do</em>.” </p>
<p>The chair squeaks as you shift your weight and stand, meandering out of the cramped room. Charlie shoots a wary side eye as you prop yourself up against the bar, slump your chin into your hand while taking absolutely <em>no</em> initiative to help him clean out the crystalline tumblers. You’re <em>just</em> a waitress after all.</p>
<p>“The bathroom needs another clean,” Charlie suggests with a shrug. “But maker <em>forbid</em> you touch a broom.”</p>
<p>“Um, <em>excuse</em> me,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I literally swept an <em>hour</em> ago. Notice how there’s no sand on the floor?”</p>
<p>Charlie sets down a glass only to pick up another to rub down with his rag. “<em>Wow</em>, congrats! You’ve done the bare minimum!”</p>
<p><em>Fucker</em>. You pull your weight just as much as he does.</p>
<p>You puff up your cheeks and let them deflate with a long stream of air, letting your eyes wander over the sparse crowd, all tucked away in their booths. Three smugglers play Sabaac in the corner, their hushed arguments carrying across the quiet space like white noise. The other six patrons drink alone, attempting to blend in with the wall like little soot stains in the darkened corners of an abandoned building.</p>
<p><em>Boring</em>.</p>
<p>You’re <em>this</em> close to cracking and snatching up your own rag and dirty glass to polish, when the muted <em>chink</em> of wind chimes hung over the back door reach your ears. Those who use the back entrance and the secluded seating, or have any knowledge of it <em>existing</em>, are limited to staff and…<em>and—</em> </p>
<p>Well, it’s either your boss or <em>Robe Guy</em>.</p>
<p>Curiosity bubbles through your chest as you rush past Charlie with an <em>accidental</em> elbow to his ribs. Your fingers curl around the arched doorway and take a timid peep down the short flight of stairs. From your perched position here you can see the worn leather boots and the swaths of thick, black fabric that snake over the floorboards. Your heart flutters with turmoiled excitement mixed with queasy uneasiness—an <em>odd</em> combination.</p>
<p>“<em>Psst</em>—Charlie!” You hiss, waving him over to your side. “Robe Guy is back!”</p>
<p>He quirks a brow and glances around the corner with feigned interest. “I don’t get why you're so obsessed with the guy.” Charlie rolls his eyes and returns to back behind the bar. “He’s just some weirdo with scary lookin’ scars.”</p>
<p>You peak around the corner again. “<em>Exactly. </em>Dont you wanna<em> know?"</em> </p>
<p>“You should learn how to keep your head down, kid.” Charlie warns, his mouth pulling into a worried line. “People around here don’t like us sniffing around their business.”</p>
<p>You wave your hand in dismissal and leap over to the bar to snatch up one of Charlie’s freshly cleaned glasses and the same bottle of Fire Whiskey Robe Guy always orders from. You poor it with excited glee and leap away before Charlie can chide you for your hastiness. He <em>always</em> gets to serve the stranger anyway— </p>
<p>You pad down the stairs, confident that you naive curiosity will provide you with the information you hunger for. You don’t give a shit If you’re willingly tossing yourself into the lion’s den to study their sharp class and pointy teeth—a sacrifice you’re willing to make for the love of science.</p>
<p>That plucky confidence you had just a moment ago bleeds out of your veins as your eyes rest of the weapons placed neatly to the side of the booth he sits at. The black rob, hood pulled up makes nothing <em>easier—</em>but you push forward. </p>
<p>“H-here you go.” You curse yourself for stuttering. His hand, scattered with scars and weathered by rough and practiced work, coil around the glass. He takes a sip. “Long day?”</p>
<p><em>Stars</em>—why are you so <em>awkward </em>at starting a conversation.</p>
<p>He takes another short sip and turns his head, one brooding brown eye boring into your soul with the weight of a black hole. “What’s it to you?”</p>
<p>Mustering up a kernel of confidence, you give him an easy smile. “I was just asking. Most folk who come in always got some sort of story to tell.”</p>
<p>“I’m just a simple man making his way through the galaxy,” he provides, the grit of his voice rougher than sand over bare skin. “Not much to tell." </p>
<p>Well, that certainly is not the answer you expected or <em>wanted</em>.</p>
<p>You should leave, of this is all the information he’s going to give. Leave a snarling Nexu be—but since when have you ever listened to reason? You bite your tongue, fingers shaking as they reach towards the hood of his cowl. The second they touch the fabric, the stranger leaps into action. He snatches your wrist, and pushes you into the nearby wall, knocking the breath clean out of your lungs.</p>
<p>“What are you playing at, girl?” He snarls, pearly white teeth flashing in the dim lighting.</p>
<p>Your heart roars in your ears as you struggle to come up with an excuse—a way to save your ass and not end up six fix under. Your nails dig into his forearm that presses <em>hard</em> into your clavicle, attempting to relieve some of that pinpointed pressure.</p>
<p>“I’m so-sorry,” you wheeze out, squirming in his hold. “I was just—I was only curious.”</p>
<p>He narrows his eyes at that, his scars distorting with the movement. “Wandering hands are not something I take kindly to.”</p>
<p>“Honest!” You squeal, sputtering as he increases the force of his arm. “I only wanted to talk! It-it’s <em>boring</em> around here.”</p>
<p>The man’s story expression never caves as he analyzes your flitting eyes, terrified that this will all turn south at the drop of a dime. Though, whether it’s your soft, wheezing begging or the truth that shines through your teary eyes, he relents. The stranger still keeps you pinned here against the wall, but no longer holds you against your will You could slip free if your tried, and you <em>should</em>—you <em>should</em> walk away and put miles between you and this volatile man, yet… </p>
<p>Yet, something in the way his eyes glitter with interested curiosity forces you to still. The end of his mouth quirks. That dangerous glint in his eye morphs into something darker, doing nothing to ease your anxieties. You flinch as he brings his hand to your face. </p>
<p>“A little shadow, aren’t you?” He chuckles, turning your head by the chin with his forefinger and thumb. “Are you a spy?”</p>
<p>“N-no.” You stutter, your pulse thrumming in your ears. Your eyes squeeze shut as you force your clenched fists to hang at your sides, keeing them from shaking. Trapped between a hard wall and the sharp teeth of sneering creature toying with its food. You won’t be coming out of this unscathed. “I’m—I’m not a spy.”</p>
<p>“No,” he agrees, the timbre of his voice like the rasp of a breeze through a shrouded forest. “<em>Look</em> at me.”</p>
<p>Swallowing the heaviness that’s settled at the back of your throat, you pry your eyes open. It’s like staring directly into the binary suns as they crest above the dunes—captivating in their own right but much too brilliant to stare at directly. The ends of his mouth quirk. “Such a pretty little thing…”</p>
<p>Your breath catches in your throat as the bare pad of his thumb, calloused and warm, scrapes over your bottom lip. The tip of your tongue peaks out, flicking against the digit before retreating behind your teeth—flirting with death is what <em>this</em> is and <em>Stars </em>does he retaliate.</p>
<p>His lips curl into an amused line, dark eyes glinting like a silver knife through the murky waters of a raging river. His thumb pushes through the seam of your lips and past the threat of teeth, nestling the thick digit into the warm heat of your pliant mouth. Still maintaining that ever so demanding eye contact, you hollow your cheeks and suck, wetting his thumb with each roll of your tongue.</p>
<p>Seemingly satisfied with your obedience or simply bored, he pulls out, leaving behind a trail of your saliva over your bottom lip and chin. You need to swallow a couple times in order to force out your jumbled words. “What’s…what’s your…”</p>
<p>You clear your throat again. “Your name?”</p>
<p>The man hesitates. His face shifts to something guarded—a secret intended to stay hidden forever to the wrong sorts of ears. Yet the offer of your own name, introducing yourself with a timid smile and dulcet lips sweeter than honey—he relents. A golden tendril of pride threads through your chest as he deems you worthy of such information, swept up in the praise you don’t bother to think of the implications that maybe you don’t <em>want</em> to know his name. </p>
<p>You flinch at the sudden jerk of his head as it dips down beside your ear. “Boba Fett…” He breaths into your skin, sticky and hot as it disturbs a few wayward hairs.</p>
<p>You can feel the low rumble of a chuckle and they way he smiles by your cheek when you repeat his name back to him. Like you’re speaking him into existence and this isn’t just one of those bizarre situations where you’ve bashed your head against the corner of a table and seeing ghosts now.</p>
<p>You inhale a shaky breath as he lifts his head. </p>
<p>“Are you afraid of me, little shadow?” Boba asks, sweeping back a lock of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. He thumbs the pieces of jewelry decorating the shell of fragile cartilage with boyish interest, then returns his large palm to rest over your cheek.</p>
<p>Your voice whispers out like the gentle trace of calloused fingers against the delicate strings of an instrument. “Should I be?”</p>
<p>Boba’s eyes soften at that. He answers your question with surging finality, dissolving any coherent thought or lingering concern for your safety when he angles your head up into a pliant, warm kiss. The sharp tang of fire whiskey and the spiced smell of desert sage fill your nose—an easy fall into oblivion. He’s <em>dangerous</em>—kisses like the battlefield, like there’s something to <em>conquer</em>. You compared him to the suns when he is, in actuality, a supernova. Volatile, incandescent, something that you’re afraid will blind you or burn you—you <em>know</em> he will, but you refuse to turn away.</p>
<p>You’re already breathless, acutely aware of your lack of experience in these sorts of things and the way your chest rises and falls with quick pants. Boba doesn’t mock you or bring attention to the sloppy kisses or bump of your teeth against his bottom lip. Only a little amused grunt when you place your shaking hand over his sternum after hooking his arm around your lower back to drag you closer.</p>
<p>“Don’t be shy, little thing,” he purrs, breaking away from your lips to nip a mark just below the line of your jaw. You whimper at the sharp prick, tilting your head as his nose nudges into your cheek to reveal more of your delicate skin. “<em>Touch me</em>.” He murmurs, breath hot and sickly sweet. “Go on.”</p>
<p>You creep you fingertips up along his shoulders—wide and firmer than durasteel—and press your quaking palms into that broad chest. Your heart hammers so hard it could crack your sternum and rip free from your chest as he swoops down to lead you into another searing kiss. Boba’s hum of pleasure vibrates pleasantly over your lips, only the softest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his humor at your frayed nerves. He delights in the slow dance with chaste presses of his lips and teasing nips. When your mouth parts for a breathless sigh, he slides his tongue in and shoves his thick thigh between your knees.</p>
<p>Firmly pinned against the rough wall like this, you’re forced onto the balls of your feet, scrabbling for a firmer purchase as the majority of your weight shifts onto his thigh. Even through the layers of fabric you can feel Boba’s growing arousal, thick and pressing over your leg. Liquid fire scorches down your vertebrae, settling in your belly as he rocks his thigh up, providing the barest scrap of friction you <em>need</em>.</p>
<p>You stiffen as the man abruptly sweeps his hand around your ribcage and untucks your shirt. His hand is huge, rough as old wood and skims along the sensitive strip of your tummy. Despite their size, he works apart each button sewed into your pants nimbly with one hand—your go to is to help—but that could risk you losing his touch all together—punished for your impatience or getting in the way of his goal. The blood singing in your veins boils when cool air brushes along your hipbones and the exposed ‘v’ of your pussy.</p>
<p>A second later Boba is reaching between your legs, weaseling those thick fingers into the constrictive confinement of your pants. And for a blissful moment...you can't bother to worry about the fact that anyone could walk into this.</p>
<p>The first pass of his calloused fingertips is blinding and <em>raw</em>. You whine, hips hitching further up his leg. Boba mouths at your jaw absent-mindedly, swiping his fingers through your slit to gather up your slick, then returning. Your toes curl as he drags fingers over your clit again, brushing over it once, twice, then pressing in and kneading at the aching nerves. Your hips follow his pace, sloppy, arching, <em>greedy</em> in a way you've never been before. His tongue slides along the shell of your ear, his breath a low pant.</p>
<p>“You like this, pretty thing?” He asks. You nod with a garbled noise of agreement. He chuckles, the gravelly sound like the first rumble of a thunderstorm high on the horizon. "<em>Good</em>.”</p>
<p>Boba works his hand deeper into your pants and curls two fingers into your entrance, digs <em>right</em> where you grow tender, igniting a fizzle of ricocheting ecstasy through your core. You drop your head back and let out an airy, blissful moan.</p>
<p>Boba tugs his hand away.</p>
<p>“<em>Hush—“ </em>He chides, reaching to grip your jaw with three fingers as he pushes his middle and index fingers into your wet mouth. Your tongue eagerly wraps around the digits coated with your own arousal, hazy eyes lifting to meet his. “Wouldn’t want someone to come looking…”</p>
<p>The pathetic gurgling noise you make in response encourages him to push deeper—past the second knuckle. Your squirm and bob your head to accommodate, suckling his fingers like you would his twitching cock and wishing like hell it <em>was. </em>Involuntary tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he reaches the back your throat, and at your sputtering gag he retreats, fingers shiny with saliva. </p>
<p>He wipes his fingers on the material of your shirt, tucks another loose hair behind your ear and taps you beneath the chin. “<em>Good girl.</em>”</p>
<p>You startle as Boba shifts and dropps his knee, causing you to stumble forward. Your nose knocks into his shoulder. “S-sorry.”</p>
<p>His amused snort soothes some of those high-strung nerves. “Come—you’re getting heavy and <em>I’m</em> getting old.” </p>
<p>Boba’s hand slips around your wrist, his clever eyes sliding to the nearest booth. You follow like a lost puppy on legs made of jelly as he leads you over, sitting over the edge of the lightly padded cushion. He drops his hold around your wrist to tuck his knuckles through your belt loops, tugging you between his spread legs.</p>
<p>Boba’s eyes crawl appreciatively up the line of your body. “Take those off and sit on my lap.”</p>
<p>You lick your lips and nod, bringing your hands to your waist and shimmying out of the offending article of clothing. The moment they land on the floor with a soft <em>thump</em>, Boba’shands reach for your bare skin the same way fire loves innocence, starving for the kindling that’ll set your souls ablaze.</p>
<p>Boba’s hands graze up your bare legs, a line of goosebumps following in his wake. The rounds of his fingertips find a foothold on the flimsy material of your underwear, thumbs rubbing light circles over the outlines of your hip bones. Your heart leaps into your throat as he flashes you a disappointed quirk of his brow. “These too, girly. <em>Neither</em> of us have time to play coy.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” you sputter out, tongue feeling swollen and unusable. “I didn’t mean—“</p>
<p>He silences your babbling with another brooding glare. You swallow, snap your jaw shut and step out of your underwear. You don’t want to brave the sharp fangs of his ire—not now, not when the ache between your legs practically <em>hurts </em>with arousal.</p>
<p>Gingerly sitting over his knees, you squeak as his palms cup the globes of your ass and yank your hips over his crotch. The firm outline of his cock bumps against your clit, the dripping folds of your cunt soaking through the fabric. He grunts near your ear and grinds his hips into the warm heat between your legs, indulging in the sweet relief of well earned pleasure.</p>
<p>“This wet for an old man?” He teases, nipping at your earlobe. You groan, cunt clenching around nothing when his hand spiders up between your chest to grope at your still covered breasts. His fingers find the stiffened peak of your nipple, pinching and rolling until a muffled whine blooms past your lips.</p>
<p>You nod and tip forward, murmuring an apology as your mouth crashes into his with a bit more force than you would’ve liked. He allows you to taste him, drink in every sigh and fleeting touch before his patience runs thin.</p>
<p>“Up,” he orders with a light pat over your hip.</p>
<p>Your head is <em>humming,</em> your hairline beading with sweat. You begin to stand, only to freeze at Boba’s laugh. He tugs you back down, nudges at your hips with his own until you're just leaning a bit backwards, your lower back pressing against the rough edge of the table. He reaches between his legs to tug at his trousers and shifts himself out. It's somehow just what you pictured. He's long and <em>thick</em>, curved just a bit, the swollen head a rosy brown and already glinting with a bead of sticky precum. <em>Maker</em> you want him in your mouth…</p>
<p>Throwing everything and all into a half thought whim, you weasel out of his hands. Before Boba has the chance to snap your name in irritation, you settle yourself between his legs and slide a warm hand over his inner thigh. The gritty sand over the floorboards will no doubt leave behind painful scrapes, but, it’s <em>worth</em> it. The hard muscle under your fingertips twitch as your hand travels closer to his cock, gently pulling the hem of his loose trousers further down his legs until more of his bare skin is revealed to your hungry eyes. Boba jolts, hissing in surprise as your mouth descends on his inner thigh, intent on leaving behind at least <em>one</em> purple mark.</p>
<p>“<em>Careful</em>—“ He grunts, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck and giving a sharp tug. You wave off his warning with a sly grin and bite down just an inch away from the crease of his thigh, His cock jumps. “<em>Fuck. </em>You’re a<em> needy </em>pet<em>.”</em></p>
<p>You tilt your chin as sheepish grin curls over your mouth. To soothe the blooming bruises in the shape of your teeth, you flatten your tongue and roll it over the velvety tip of his length. Boba moans low in his throat when your hand reaches around the base of his cock. “I think you <em>like</em> it.”</p>
<p>You’re lucky he finds you amusing you think—</p>
<p>His rough chortle breaths warmth into your chest, all but preening for his approval. Another tug on your hair commands you to crawl up and over his knees once more. You puff out your bottom lip, lifting your hand to rub you thumb over the edge of the scar on his cheek. “I wanted to taste you.”</p>
<p>Boba’s forefinger and thumb pinch your chin, the scrape of his lips brushing against your cheek. “Another time, precious thing.”</p>
<p>His knuckles brush your clit as he starts to jerk himself off, your moan barely caught between your teeth as you watch the leaking tip be swallowed up by his broad hand, then jut out, then vanish again with each thrust. Boba settles his cock between your legs, rocks it up and down through your dripping folds until his cock is glistening with your arousal. He then cups your thighs with both hands and tells you to lift up. You raise your hips, breath hitching at the blunt head of his cock pushing into your throbbing entrance. You let him guide you down with a shaky sigh. </p>
<p>”<em>There we go.</em>.." Boba grunts as he buries himself inside of your cunt, the stretch a satisfying, aching burn that wipes your mind until the only thing you can see are stars. “<em>Maker</em>…"</p>
<p>Your jaw hangs open, your breath no more than a weak pant as Boba jerks his hips up, inching himself further in. It feels like every fibre of your being is ripped apart, bursting and reforming around him, centered on each twitch of his cock inside you. Just when his girth starts to hurt a bit, he bottoms out, the tops of his thighs touching the backs of yours.</p>
<p>Boba presses his nose and lightly chapped lips against your cheek, just next to the crease of your smile lines. His breath is strained. Tight and forced under control.</p>
<p>“Look at that, my little shadow…” He huffs. You swallow, glance between you, and shiver when he twitches inside you again, the pulsing throb of a man fighting the urge to fuck without thought. “So <em>pretty</em> stretched around me."</p>
<p>Boba curls a hand around the back of your neck and tugs you close enough that you both are able to feel each other’s chests ride and fall. He starts thrusting, shallow little juts of his hips that hardly move you as you still adjust around him. Dark tendrils of your arousal spin through your brain like spider silk, the obscene sight of his cock pistoning in and out between your spread legs, your wetness oozing onto the thick thatch of hair coating his balls and navel.</p>
<p>The careful buildup of letting you adjust and what kept him gentle, fades away into tangible nothingness. <em>Fast</em>.</p>
<p>You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he speeds up the pace. The man's breath curls hot and hungry against your hairline, rolling thrusts slapping wetly. You squeal, adrenaline piercing your heart as Boba abruptly manhandles your hips up and onto the table, your ass hanging off the edge as he continues to fuck you with devouring abandon. He growls and yanks your right leg over his shoulder, all but folding you in <em>half</em>. </p>
<p>Each stroke is a firecracker, a jagged edge of serrated heat that drags whimpers out between your clenched teeth and pursed lips. You hold the sleeve of his arm with an iron hold, your other hand having mindlessly gripped onto the edge of the table as an anchor. Thank the fucking <em>Maker</em> these tables are bolted down…Your pulse roars each time you look up through your lashes and catch his dark eyes, focused with lust brighter than star fire. He tilts forward, the leg over his shoulder prickling at the stretch.</p>
<p>“Bein’ so good." He whispers into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders between grunts. <em>Generous</em> praise you've dangerously become addicted to. “Fucking <em>tight—</em>all for <em>me.</em>“</p>
<p>He goes silent, grip turning bruising as he sprints towards his release with an animalistic single-mindedness that might've scared you any other time. You don’t want it to ever end. The friction of each thrust, the way he fills you. Your mind whispers the suspicion that he feels the same way—you thoughts ring true right when he bites the crook of your neck, groaning into your skin like you're the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him. One hand leaves your thigh and presses two calloused fingers to your clit, scrubbing in a hurried semi-circle—</p>
<p>You cry, a high pitched, pathetic noise that rings through the room. Boba’s hand claps over your mouth. “<em>Quiet</em>."</p>
<p>You huff and whimper into his palm, mortified and still unable to stop the tiny noises. You're so <em>close</em>. You squirm and clench around his cock. Devastating ripples are starting to flicker through your core, the first few tumbling rocks before an avalanche tears through a helpless valley. Boba’s pleased grunts in your ear are a welcomed song, his hand clasped over your mouth, as his thumb strokes your cheek.</p>
<p>
  <em>"That's my pretty thing.”</em>
</p>
<p><em>That</em> does it.</p>
<p>You squeeze tight and groan, violent shivers making your back arch high off the table. It floods quick and cataclysmic through your thighs, scrapes over every nerve—a helpless fire that eats up your insides from within. Boba’s voice is equally wrecked, his grumbles muffled into the bruised skin of your neck as he slams into you, once, twice, thrice, thick thighs flexing with need. Your climax, still burning hot and bright, drags out as he continues, an endless reverberation that renders you oversensitive. For a few wild moments, his thrusts are too much, too <em>sharp</em>. He yanks out and presses his cock against your belly, hot, messy streaks of his cum spattering up your middle.</p>
<p>He lets your leg slip off his shoulder and gathers you up in his arms, the world only shifting back into focus when you're gently persuaded off the table. Boba leans back against the back of the booth, your limp body happy to comply with each way he decides to maneuver you. For a few, blissful seconds you're pressed against each other, gasping and shivering—the need you’re feeding of closely pressed skin and the weight of another body before you say goodbye.</p>
<p>Boba’s fingers loosely card through your hair and heaven has never felt so <em>real—</em>like the smell of burnt sugar that sticks to the roof of your mouth, lush grass and the softness of a moth’s wing. You find yourself clinging to his robe when Boba shifts.</p>
<p>“Time to go,” he sighs, smoothing a hand down your back. “You have a place to be.”</p>
<p>You peel yourself off his body, reluctant and pouty. On wobbly legs you stand, shooting a half hearted glare at Boba’s bemused smirk. “Shut up.” You grumble, snatching up your pants from the floor. Oddly enough, you cant seem to find your undies… </p>
<p><em>Ah</em>, fuck it— </p>
<p>You can run around commando for a couple more hours.</p>
<p>Boba fixes his own clothes while you scramble to rearrange your hair and adjust your clothes like you hadn’t been just been fucked within an inch of your kriffing <em>life. He </em>looks mighty fine and smug, his weathered hand spidering across the table to pick up the empty glass, tipped over by your late night endeavors. He languidly stands, meanders to your frozen self and brushes his free hand over your forearm. Boba lifts you hand and slides the cup into your empty palm.</p>
<p>He leans close and noses at your neck still damp with sweat. “Get me another drink?"</p>
<p>You swipe your tongue over your parted lips. “Y-yeah, sure.”</p>
<p>Just as you turn to follow through on his request, he cups your cheeks with both hands and crashed his lips onto yours in a searing kiss. It leaves you gasping, dizzying and something you’re gonna remember until your very last day in the galaxy. He rips himself away like tearing off a scab not yet healed, and urges you to leave.</p>
<p>You part your lips to speak—thank him or <em>something, </em>but he hushes you quirk of the brow. “<em>Go</em>. You’re needed elsewhere, little shadow.”</p>
<p>Clutching the glass in your hand, you nod and begin your short travel from the lounge, up the stairs and into the low chatter of the cantina. Charlie gives you a sideways glance, and Maker <em>save</em> you, you hope he doesn’t notice the line of hickeys up your throat. He keeps his mouth shut and refits the glass you hand him without a sound. </p>
<p>Your hands still shake as they wrap around the sides, nerves still set ablaze as you drift back down to the lounge. </p>
<p>He’s gone.</p>
<p>The only evidence he’s <em>been</em> here are the nicely stacked pile of credits and the sliver metal of necklace, some sort of dragon you think. You frown and set the glass onto the table and instead pick up the jewelry. It’s only been a couple minutes— </p>
<p>You rush out the back door, hoping you’re not too late to catch him. The cold, white light of the stars and the dust kicked up by your feet is the only thing you find. Your fist tightens around the necklace he left, the melancholy ache of wind kissing rooftops and the haunting shadows of the far off dunes welling inside the cavity of your heart. It’s silly of you to expect that anything lasting would come of this but…you’ve always been a dreamer.</p>
<p>You thumb the etched grooves of the creature, moonlight fracturing off the metal like a circlet of pearls. It’s a promise you realize. <em>His</em> promise to you that just like the moons rising above the horizon, he’ll be back for his <em>pretty thing</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Leave it All Behind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yall begGED OUTTA YO ASSES SO FINE HERE TAKE IT</p>
<p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Against all odds, somehow the traffic in the cantina plummets to an astounding and <em>abysmal</em>, dry spell.</p>
<p>Locals are caught up with the harvest while the strangers are no doubt called away on similar business. Charlie, your coworker, managed to scrounge up enough credits to barter his way into the University in Theed for next year’s semester—meaning most nights he’s tucked away in some corner studying for entry exams.</p>
<p>Guess you scored that bartending job after all—too bad there’s no one to <em>serve</em>. You sigh and half-heartedly sweep your rag over the bartop, brushing the pile of breadcrumbs onto the sandy floor.</p>
<p>You’ll sweep later. There’s too much kriffing sand and people keep tracking it in—an impossible job.</p>
<p>You puff up your cheeks and let out a long stream of air—he’s been gone for a long time.</p>
<p>Nearly a month if you’re counting the days correctly since Boba Fett has stepped foot into the cantina. He’d never been a <em>frequent</em> customer per se—maybe every two weeks he’d show face—but now he’s just…<em>gone</em>. </p>
<p><em>Stars</em> you hope nothing’s happened to him—that he’s alive and well and not laying at the bottom of a Sarlaac pit. You unconsciously touch your fingers to the cool metal of the necklace he left behind that night and <em>fuck—</em></p>
<p>You wish he’d slip through the door downstairs and give you a reason not to quit this stupid job. Sure, fucking strange men on company time <em>and</em> on company property isn’t exactly the most…<em>decent</em> thing an employee could do, but <em>whatever</em>. Worth it for the best sex of your life and a smattering of bruises and soreness that followed you around for <em>days</em>.</p>
<p>Guess life has a way of fucking you over too—</p>
<p>You pick up the closest glass and frown at the blasted thing. No matter how many times you fucking scrub it down, there’s <em>always</em> a fine layer of dust that sticks to it like magnets to metal. Unwilling to end your pissing match with a drinking glass and your incredible ability at procrastinating—you almost miss the chink of wind chimes knocked aside by the door.</p>
<p>It’s no Boba Fett that stands on the front porch, but the newcomer is <em>certainly</em> an anomaly among the locals. Dark hair threaded into a braid, a blaster rifle strung over her shoulders—a mercenary maybe—</p>
<p>She sizes up the area with practiced ease, the weight of her calculating stare pinpointing on <em>you—</em>the hairs on the back of your neck prick into points. You’re being silly and paranoid—there’s nothing she could <em>possibly</em> want from you other than a drink. Biting the inside of your cheek, you give her a little wave. “Can I get you anything?”</p>
<p>The woman saunters to the bar and slides into a stool, the rickety thing creaking under her weight as she adjusts and sets her rifle to the side. “Spotchka, if you have it.”</p>
<p>You nod and pull out a glass, reach for the decanter of the neon blue drink beneath the counter, and fill her glass. She accepts it with a nod as you shuffle away and fiddle with anything you can find to fill that strange void of silence. You never really know what to say to patrons—always comes out wonky or inadvertently rubs someone the wrong way—small talk is not your forte.</p>
<p>Halfway through the woman’s drink she leans back and wipes her gloved hand over her mouth and waves you over. “What’s your name?”</p>
<p>Weird question, but you hand it over anyway. It’s not like you’re telling her where you <em>live </em>or something. </p>
<p>Her pointer finger rasps over the glass as she circles it. “So <em>you’re</em> the one I’m supposed to be looking for,” she arches a thin brow. “He’s right—you <em>are</em> a pretty little thing.”</p>
<p>Your mouth shuts and opens like a tiny dune fish—lost for words as a red-hot blush burns through your entire being. You wouldn’t be surprised if you straight up burst into flames and crumbled into a pile of ash. He’s…he’s here? </p>
<p>“What’s the matter? Loth-cat got your tongue?” Fennec laughs, lifting the glass to her mouth to take another sip.</p>
<p>“Um—uh, no,” you mumble, glancing away. “I—you were sent for <em>me</em>?”</p>
<p>She nods and unfurls her arm, offering her hand. You tentatively shake it, squeaking in surprise when she yanks you closer—you hips bump into the barstool. “Fennec Shand. Hopefully we’ll be seeing much more of each other.”</p>
<p><em>Dangerous—</em>a viper with needle sharp fangs, waiting to slice through the underbrush and claim whatever prey she’s set her sight on. The mini flame of panic sparkling through your chest tells you that it’s more than likely <em>you</em>. “Hi…” </p>
<p>She doesn’t stay for long—finishes her spotchka in one go and leans precariously over the counter. Fennec’s fingers spider over your collar, then to the necklace you wear, giving the pendant a playful tug as she murmurs into your ear the location. <em>Jabba’s Palace.</em> </p>
<p>You breath catches inn your throat—stuck and refusing to budge as she sharply pulls away. The mercenary gathers herself and her rifle, slings it over her shoulder and tosses you a wink.</p>
<p>“We’ll be waiting, <em>kitten</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Well—</em>
</p>
<p>It’s certainly a castle.</p>
<p>Confused and <em>slightly</em> out of place you bang your knuckles on the durasteel blast doors for a <em>third</em> time. The sound echoes through whatever space lies behind it and…<em>nothing</em>. You groan, stomp over to an outcrop of sandstone and slump onto the little perch. You swear to the Maker if you ditched your shift for a false promise—</p>
<p>You grumble and prop your arm onto your knee for your cheek to lean on. The minutes tick by and this <em>blows</em>—you shouldn’t fucking be here. It’s almost dark and you’re gonna get eaten by a<em> womp rat </em>because the kriffing door won’t <em>open</em>. All for some stupid mysterious man and his—</p>
<p>You jolt as a little side door wrenches open with a deafening creak. You breath out a sigh of relief as Fennec appears and beckons you over. Brushing yourself off, you pad over and step into the archway. “Maybe you should install a doorbell or something…”</p>
<p>Fennec’s lips curl into a grin as she shuts and bolts the door behind you, “I’ll keep that in mind.”</p>
<p>The rest of the walk is silent as she leads you through a dimly lit passageway, the pitter patter of little scraprat feet and dripping water accompanying you through the small trek. Fennec punches in another code for the blast door at the end of the hallway and <em>finally</em> you arrive.</p>
<p>It’s dead silent, empty save for the pair of you and for just a brief moment you wonder if this is some sort of prank—an elaborate ploy so this lady can rob you of all the precious credits you own. You give her a wary glance.</p>
<p>“Stay here,” Fennec orders with a smirk. “I’ll go find him—don’t worry, kitten.”</p>
<p>You nod your head, much too busy drinking in the strange decor of the palace and it’s oddities. The Hutt family is notorious—the nearly own the entirety of the Outer Rim and parts of wild space you just…never thought you’d step foot in one of their palaces. </p>
<p>By the time you turn around, Fennec is gone.</p>
<p>Alrighty then…</p>
<p>Rolling your eyes at yourself, you meander around the space, poking at the sparse furniture and the gold platted vases. Nothing catches your bored eyes until—</p>
<p>Ohoho—what is <em>that</em>.</p>
<p>Hoisting yourself up the short flight of stairs, you’re brought face to face with a throne. Your hand whispers along the the carved armrest, the smooth metal chilly beneath your fingertips despite the constant heat outside. You don’t have a kriffing <em>clue</em> what the runes mean—you never were one for ancient scriptures and whatnot when you were in school—that’s nerd shit anyway.</p>
<p>Casting your eyes throughout the empty room, you double check that, you are in fact, <em>alone</em>.You circle around the armrest, <em>triple </em>check no one is going to see you—just like a little kid sticking their hand into a bag of chocolate chips—while not explicitly stated, the rule is implied <em>not</em> to. Against better judgement you lower yourself onto the throne, the metal a cool relief against your heated skin.</p>
<p>You lean back as a giddy smile cracks over your face. This is <em>fun—</em>fulfills that stupid childhood dream of becoming royalty for a <em>brief</em> moment. You hear the quiet scuffle of boots behind the throne and—<em>fuck. </em>Your smile drops as you freeze, your blood turning into ice chips.</p>
<p>It’s too late to <em>move.</em></p>
<p>Your teeth clamp down on your tongue, staying in place and <em>praying</em> that somehow that whoever is behind you pays you no more mind than they would a shadow. You level your terrified gaze onto a nearby pillar and <em>wait</em>.</p>
<p><em>Escaping</em>, however, is not an option.</p>
<p>The mystery person pads closer, the squeak of leather and the shifting fabric the only thing your ears are able to pick up. The familiar timbre of Boba Fett’s chuckle does nothing to solve your racing nerves. The raspy scrape of it makes it <em>worse</em>.  </p>
<p>You suck in a shaky breath when his gloved hand slowly curls over the headrest. The hair on the back of your neck pricks into points as the air around you shifts. Boba tips forward and from the corner of your eye you’re able to make out the sharp lines of a helmet, painted a dark green and accented with red. You refuse to fully face him—maybe if you don’t acknowledge him he’ll turn into a puff of smoke—</p>
<p><em>“That </em>does not belong to you<em>.”</em></p>
<p>You jump six feet out of your fucking skin—<em>stars</em> he’s closer than you <em>thought</em>. Close enough that the helmet is only a hairsbreadth away from touching your cheek. Clenching your hands to keep them from shaking, you brave a <em>singular</em> glance to your right.</p>
<p>He cocks his head. You wince. “You um…I like the armor. S-suits you.”</p>
<p>Boba snorts at your lame attempt at flattery. “Up.”</p>
<p>You scramble off the throne and stand to the side, guilt clawing up your chest and blooming into a heavy weight. This isn’t the same sorta mistake as dropping a glass and only needing to sweep up the razor sharp pieces to fix it—you don’t think he’d go as far as <em>killing</em> you <em>but</em>—but there’s always that chance.</p>
<p>You stare at your shoes, dusty and in need of some repair, and fold your arms into your chest. Your shoulders knit together at the weight of each footstep he takes towards you. The tips of his boots enter your line of vision—you hold you breath.</p>
<p>He raises his right arm and you somehow muster enough courage to hold your ground—refusing to flinch in the face of a snarling rancor. All he does is tap his bent finger beneath your chin, remedying all that swirling doubt and frosty anxiety. </p>
<p>“I didn’t think you would come,” Boba says, moving his hand up to push back a lock of your hair. “Not many are brave enough to come here.”</p>
<p>The helmet shrouds his voice with a metallic twang while the visor forces you to recall every little detail of his face. It’s a bit unnerving, but you’ll manage—you always have. </p>
<p>You flash him a smile. “Well…I knew you’d be here…so—so I wasn’t <em>too</em> worried.”</p>
<p>Boba hums in thought and drags his gloved fingers down the curve of your throat. He rolls the old twine of the necklace between his fingers, his shoulders jolting with a disbelieving scoff. “You kept it.”</p>
<p>“Was I not supposed to?”</p>
<p>He doesn’t answer, teasing you with that same air of unfamiliarity of a world you’ll never be privy too. You bite your tongue and cast a line into a different direction.“What is it?”</p>
<p>He lets the pendant drop back over your sternum. “A mythosaur skull.” </p>
<p>You don’t have a fucking clue what <em>that</em> is and he’s not keen on providing you with a history lesson on terrifying looking creatures. Boba spins on his heel and saunters to his throne—the <em>rightful</em> owner of it.</p>
<p>He sits with a sigh. With a lazy cock of his head he opens his palm and gestures to the spot right before him. </p>
<p>
  <em>“Kneel.”</em>
</p>
<p>You roll your lip between your teeth and drop onto one knee, and then the other.</p>
<p>Boba rotates his palm and crooks a finger. The digit curls dreadfully slow as the roughed timbre of his voice flows from the vocoder. “Come here, little one.”</p>
<p>Rough sandstone scrapes your knees as you shuffle between his legs, relaxed and spread wide enough for you to easily fit. Once you’re close enough where he doesn’t need to strain to reach you, he lifts his hand. Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, commanding your entire attention and <em>nothing</em> less. “If I remember correctly…”</p>
<p>His fingers unfurl around your jaw, pressing into the sensitive pressure points to unhinge your mouth. “You were so <em>desperate</em> to take me <em>here</em>.”His thumb taps over your bottom lip, the fragile skin a bit chapped from the harshness of the sun.</p>
<p>Old leather and blaster residue flood your tastebuds when his thumb pushes past the seam of your lips. The rough texture of the leather rests just over the tip of your tongue then retreats just as fast. His fingers skim over your cheekbone, twisting a lock of your hair and then giving it a teasing yank.</p>
<p>“Are you going to answer me, pretty thing?” He purrs, cocking his head to the side in question.</p>
<p>Your words stick to your tongue like glue, congealed into an embarrassing loop of stuttered half sentences and garbled squeaks. You settle for a sharp nod, a fiery blush heating the apples of your cheeks like wildfire.</p>
<p>Boba clicks his tongue and pats your cheek. “Speak up.” </p>
<p>Swallowing a couple of times, your eyes jump to the lip of his helmet, to his cuirass then back to the dark visor. Nerves still frayed and crackling, you muster enough courage to force your voice through the lump in your throat and the enamel of your teeth. “Y-yes. I was…I did—I <em>do</em> want that.”</p>
<p>His rough chortle makes your stomach twist. He’s toying with you, armed with lazy amusement—the same way a loth-cat bats at a cornered scraprat—drawing out the sick torture before snapping its little neck between it’s teeth. You wonder how long this little game will continue to humor him before he snaps.</p>
<p>
  <em>Not long— </em>
</p>
<p>Boba leans back, the whisper of beskar and squeaking leather following his every movement. Despite the size of the throne, he fills the space with confident ease—like this is where he’s destined to sit—to <em>rule</em>. Through ash and smoke and the flames of war, he’s prevailed and there’s no better way to grant him his victory than <em>this</em>.</p>
<p>“Go ahead,” Boba drawls, and you can <em>feel</em> that mocking smile curl over his lips. “Impress me.” </p>
<p>Eager and not willing to risk his ire, you touch a tentative palm over his knee. When he doesn’t react, you smooth over his inner thigh, finding the seam where the fabric of his robe splits. His inhale is sharp when your fingers meet the bare skin of thighs—disappointed that the purple marks from before had healed—not even a trace. Guess you’ll have to fix <em>that</em>.</p>
<p>His leg jolts as your teeth descend over the meat of his inner thigh, little nips and fluttering kisses that trail up towards your prize. As you reach the crease of his thighs, you lift your head—a stroke of pride bolting down your spine as Boba encourages you with a gravelly purr of praise. Your lips quirk in a smile.</p>
<p>Both of your palms sweep up the firm muscle of his quads, intent on pushing away that last layer of dastardly fabric. You roll your tongue over you teeth—his cock is half hard, still thick and flushed a rosy brown just like you remembered. Like you’ve been <em>dreaming</em> about for weeks—and now you have <em>him, </em>all for <em>yourself</em>. You spare a glance up at him the same moment your fingers wrap around his length. The dim lights catch off the matte paint as he tips his head back, highlighting the near invisible nicks the dark green refused to stick toand a strip of brown skin of the underside of his chin.        </p>
<p>You begin to languidly pump his cock, steady strokes that drag out muted grunts and throw jetfuel into your own crackling arousal—sticky wetness already dampening your underwear, your thighs clenching together for the barest scrap of relief. His cock twitches in your hand as your other carefully cups his balls and squeezes.</p>
<p>“<em>Maker</em>—“ Boba groans, rolling his head forward to watch your hands roll over the velvety flesh, flushed and rock solid. You hold the thick swell of his cock with a relaxed grip, sticky precum beginning to bead and dribble over the slopes of your knuckles. “Such a good little pet.”</p>
<p>Boba’s fingers twitch over the armrests as your lips find the sharp swell of his narrow hip, a wicked smile etched across your face. You suck a dark mark into the skin and move inward. You tilt your head and twist your tongue along the underside of his cock, following the gentle curve up. Pursing your lips, you run the shaft between them, wetting the throbbing skin to ease the movements of your hand that reaches up to tenderly stroke his cock. You use the tip of your tongue to dip along the ridges of his frenulum, then over the tip, your tongue lapping the bead of salty moisture that collects there.</p>
<p>He puffs out a curse and <em>caves—</em>allowing his restless fingers to instead thread through your hair. You can’t feel the warmth or the rough callous of his hands through the gloves, but this’ll do. It’s <em>enough</em>.  </p>
<p>Boba groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks. You bob your head, cautious of your teeth catching as you slowly work him in further—even like this, not even halfway into your mouth, you’re starting to feel the prickly sensation of your lips stretching a bit <em>too</em> much. You groan as your eyes flutter shut. You’d be fine here—half of him in your mouth while your hand compensates for the rest—</p>
<p><em>He </em>does not share in your decrepit vision.  </p>
<p>“You can take more,” he goads. “Can’t you?” </p>
<p>You squeeze your eyes shut and whine, the ache in your jaw spreading up throughout the joints as you take him deeper, the tip brushing dangerously against the back of your throat. Boba’s legs twitch as he rolls his head back again, the beskar clinking against the metallic throne. He readjusts his hold on your hair, securing your positioning with no chance of escape. </p>
<p>Your muffled moan rattles through your vocal chords at the effort to work your jaw wider, the overworked tendons pulling at the added stress. <em>Fuck</em>—you’re surprised nothing has torn or popped out of place.</p>
<p>He grunts his approval at your complacency and pushes the rest of himself into your mouth. Your nose brushes against his groin as he combs his fingers through your hair, forcing you to stay impaled on his cock. You squirm, the soft muscles of your throat constricting around his length—limited oxygen and the thick size of him makes you <em>panic</em>.</p>
<p>“<em>Shit</em>—“ Boba yanks you off his cock, sweet, cool air, rushing into your lungs as you pant and wheeze. You smooth your hands over the tiny crescent shape marks your nails left over his outer thighs in apology and rest your head over his leg. “Such a good girl—you take me well.”</p>
<p>You blink up at him and offer a weak smile—head still swimming as he cards his fingers through your hair. “Wanna try again,” you rasp, your hand drifting back around his cock still slick with your saliva. “Please?”</p>
<p>“<em>Heh,” </em>he snorts. “All right, pet.”</p>
<p>With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. You part your mouth and let him sink into the soft warmth. The burn is less noticeable this time around as he bottoms out, his hands returning to their place tangled in your hair.Boba inhales, the sound a bit shaky as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts.</p>
<p>You clench your fist while the other one grips the fabric of his robe like a steel jaw trap, willing yourself to push through the urge to quit. You <em>can</em> do this.</p>
<p>You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Boba rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace you choose. Saliva drips down his cock and over your hand, pooling onto the throne—staining it forever with your sin. You can’t find it in you to give a <em>singular</em> fuck—</p>
<p>Maybe—<em>maybe </em>each time he sits here he’ll be reminded of <em>you</em>. Swallowing down his cock, taking all of it just like he asked. <em>His</em> pretty little thing. </p>
<p>Both your hands sweep up, exploring the taught, flexing muscles of his thighs then around to the swell of his hips. Boba swears, his pace stuttering as you <em>squeeze, </em>trying to drag him <em>closer. </em>Boba murmurs your name, the pitch of his words reduced to a gritty scape. Your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor. “Nearly there—keep goin’.”</p>
<p>You blink and swallow around him, wining at the abrupt jolt of his hips. The previous gentleness of his thrusts taper off—he cradles your skull, wrenching away the threadbare control you owned, replacing it with short, bruising thrusts. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow—at this point all you can do is hang on for dear life as he fucks your mouth.</p>
<p>You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s <em>close</em>. A couple more wild thrusts and he’s <em>gone.</em> He pulls his cock halfway out with a drawn out a snarl, one hand circling the base of his throbbing cock as warm streams of his release spurt against the roof of your mouth.</p>
<p>“<em>Good. </em>Fucking perfect,” Boba praises. “Swallow—<em>all</em> of it.”</p>
<p>He’s still fucking <em>going</em>—his cum thick and plentiful that dribbles out of your mouth and over his groin. You do the best you can to follow his orders but gravity is not your friend in this predicament. When the last few jittery rolls of his hips come to a complete stop, his chest heaving as he mutters out a litany of praise and cut off swears, you slip him out of your mouth. </p>
<p>Boba hums as you stare up at him—all doe-eyed and swollen lips. His thumb swipes through a glob of his cum dribbling from the corner of your mouth and pushes it back in. Your tongue eagerly wraps around the rough callous of the digit—putty in his hands. You don’t expect the favor to be returned; each time you’ve done this sorta thing that’s how it would always play out, leaving unsatisfied and all up to you to find your pleasure. But Boba is different—a wildcard that keeps you on your toes, dragging you into a precarious dance that’ll result in blood and agony if you’re not careful.</p>
<p>You begin to move from between his thighs, but he stops you with a touch to your cheek.</p>
<p>“I’m not finished with you, little one,” he laughs, the dark rasp sparking a shiver that rushes down each vertebrae. “Sit here.”</p>
<p>You bite the insides of your lip and nod as he pats his lap in invitation. Standing from between his knees on shaky legs, you let him hook his hands around your hips and <em>yank</em> you onto him. You squeak and stumble but he’s quick enough to correct your momentum and settle you with your back resting against the freezing beskar, legs draped over his legs—and all without getting knocked in the head by a flailing limb. Your heart hammers against your ribcage as Boba’s right arm clamps over your hips, while the other creeps up the front of your chest, his fingers snaking around your throat. </p>
<p>He pushes the front of his helmet into the crook of your neck, the beskar vibrating with a low buzz when he speaks. “Look at you…</p>
<p>Your heart jumps into your throat as both hands lift away in order to slip off his gloves. They fall to the floor with a quiet thump. Now bare, he settles one of his hands over the swell of your hip, worming their way beneath your trousers. He uses his knees to spread your legs further apart, making it <em>far</em> too easy for his curious fingers to slide into your trousers and find the wet heat of your cunt. You gasp as his index finger ghosts over the thin fabric of your panties, made <em>painfully</em> aware just how soaked you are.</p>
<p>“This wet from sucking my cock?” Boba asks, pushing aside the fabric to press his fingertip to your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking when he increases the pressure over the swollen nerves. “<em>Needy</em>.” </p>
<p>You hiccup and throw your head back against his shoulder pauldron, your arm shooting out to clutch right above the edge of his vambrace as razor sharp arousal splits through your core. His middle and index fingers part, trapping your clit between them as he slowly starts to rock his fingers through your folds, your slick arousal easing the friction to an easy glide.</p>
<p>You squirm and buck your hips into his palm—it isn’t <em>enough</em>.</p>
<p>Like this, his fingers only stimulate the outside of your clit, ramping up the teasing ache of arousal. Your pitiful whines and weak begging do nothing to convince him to go faster, give you what you <em>need—</em>just the same<em>, up and down, up and down—</em></p>
<p>You’re close to fucking<em> tears, </em>your cunt throbbing, dripping and greedy for any sort of friction Boba refuses to give. Reduced to nothing but blubbering pleads of his name and frantic jolts of hour hips in the off chance he’ll slip and <em>touch</em> you, you turn your head and pepper kisses to the frigid beskar helmet.</p>
<p>“<em>Please</em>—please! I c-can’t,” you whine, “I need—“</p>
<p>You sob as his fingers slow <em>down</em>. “What do you need, little shadow?”</p>
<p>Thighs shaking as the wicked heat of denial rushes through your body, you squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a shaky breath. There’s no chance of regaling any of your self control but <em>stars </em>you’re gonna try to prevent diving headfirst into the sickening madness of disaster. “I’ve—I’ve been good. <em>Please</em>, Boba I—“</p>
<p>You swear as he completely stops. “You’re a greedy little thing.” His sigh crackles through the vocoder. “But you’re <em>right </em>my pretty thing—” </p>
<p>Boba’s fingers completely bypass the hood of your clit, aiming directly for the raw nerves that’ll set you body ablaze. It’s like he’s touched a live fucking wire—</p>
<p>A low scream rips free from your vocal chords, your back arching off his armor as you throw your hips into him—or maybe away—<em>shit. </em>It almost<em> hurts.</em></p>
<p>All it takes a light scrape of his nail over your clit and you’re done for.</p>
<p>It builds up catastrophically—wrenching you from this plane of existence, barely hanging on by sheer force of will. Plasma-hot lightning crackles across your vision, up your spine and all the way down to your toes. You’re dropped from the highest ledge in the universe with devastating finality.</p>
<p>Your eyes snap open, that toe-curling high quickly plummeting into prickly overstimulation. But he doesn’t fucking <em>stop</em>.</p>
<p>“One more,” Boba growls into your ear. “One more for me.” </p>
<p>He trades his hold on your hip to slide his left hand into your untucked shirt, roughly palming and kneading your breast through your bra as your hips wiggle, unsure if you want more or revel in that burning pleasure. The tight circles he's now drawing over your clit incinerates through your abdomen—thrusts you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to <em>again</em>. You cry out his name as wicked heat licks up your body, spreading to each limb like the dry underbrush faced with the inferno. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. </p>
<p>“Let me hear you,” he says, almost a breathless request. “Let the whole world know <em>I’m</em> the one making you cum.”</p>
<p>Your body seizes up <em>tight</em> as white hot heat sears through your core. Light, brighter than an imploding supernova. bursts behind your eyes, a long whine of his name filtering past your lips as you shudder and fall apart in his arms, cunt clenching <em>hard</em> around his fingers. </p>
<p>You groan when he pulls them out, little pinpricks of remaining pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely hanging onto realty, fucked within an inch of your life as you pant and attempt to mellow out your pounding heart. Boba raises his hand, his two fingers and the majority of his palm drenched in your arousal, forcing you to bear witness to how <em>easy</em> it is for this man to pluck and pull at your strings like the galaxy’s finest musician. </p>
<p>He brings his hand to his helmet, catches his thumb under the lip of his helmet and raises it enough to expose his mouth. With each finger, stained with your arousal, he licks them clean, savoring the tang of your wetness. He hums in satisfaction and lets the helmet fall back over his chin once he’s thoroughly cleaned your slick from his entire hand. “You’ll let me taste you next time.”</p>
<p>It’s not phrased as a question—it’s a <em>demand</em>. One that you happily bob your head too after resting your head against the painted cuirass. Boba settles his hands over your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re <em>sure</em> you’re imagining it.</p>
<p>The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay on—cold and unforgiving—yet, the comforting warmth of his body and his careful touches convince you to stay put. Just for a little awhile—a brief escape before you have to part ways…</p>
<p>“You should stay,” he offers quietly, searching for the the mythosaur pendant around your throat. “Leave it all behind.”</p>

<p></p><div class="">
  <p>He’s offering the rose-gold glow of a new dawn--a different future you can mold into something sonorous and tangible. Boba will promise you these things, his reality is harsh and he’ll never shy away from the truth or an undecided fate. But he’s here <em>now. </em>You’re <em>his</em> for this gentle stretch of time and it’s all you dream of having. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>You agree. </em> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Anything at All</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>anyway sorry for the filth ejhlehr </p>
<p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>You haven’t seen Boba Fett in days. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Called away on business you’ll never be included in or know the fine details about. It’s not kept away from you because he doesn’t trust you, or thinks you’re a mindless idiot—<em>no—</em>he’d rather keep <em>his princess </em>occupied with prettier things. No need to concern yourself with the the underbelly of what he now rules. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>You’re not upset about it—you’re not really a fan of watching petty squabbles that’ll result in someone’s chest being imploded by a blaster. You’ve seen enough of it in the cantina, and while you were never the one tasked with clearing the bodies out—it was still <em>mildly </em>traumatizing. Eh—no need to <em>dwell</em>. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>You’ve got other shit to do anyway. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>There’s a seemingly endless zigzag of secret hallways and dusty rooms within the palace, teeming with strange knickknacks and ancient artifacts that are more than likely <em>cursed</em>. Definitely haunted—but it doesn’t stop you from exploring or sorting through the useless junk. <em>Besides—</em>Fennec stayed behind, acting as your glorified babysitter for the past few cycles—ensuring your safety from both whoever dared step foot into the palace <em>and</em>the ghosts. What a lovely woman. </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Speaking of which—you hear her sigh and shuffle, shifting her weight onto her other foot as she leans back against a dusty crate. She picks at the dirt beneath her fingernails, lazily glancing up every now and then to check that you haven’t eviscerated yourself on a piece of scrap metal or something. Lucky for her, all you found today was an abandoned crate of old datapacs shoved in the back corner from what you assumed to be some sort of office. Yesterday you found a sword that was <em>promptly</em> confiscated.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’d be careful snooping around in those,” Fennec warns as your fingers find the on switch. “You never know what sorta data the Hutts were keeping here.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You shrug and wave away her concern, reading over the information that flickers across the screen. “I think I’ll be ok…See?” You pointedly wave the datapac in her direction. “This one is about the finances. <em>Spooky</em>.”    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fennec rolls her eyes followed by an amused smirk that ghosts over her lips. You toss it aside and root around some more, pulling out another datapac. The blue hologram flickers to life and as you decipher the little lines of text your face falls. Each line is a name, previous and recently bought or traded people that crossed the threshold of the palace. Fennec was right. This isn’t fun anymore.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“These are…<em>slaves</em>.” Your lips curls in disgust. “How is this <em>still</em> not outlawed? It’s barbaric.”      </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re not from Tatooine, are you?” Fennec asks as she meanders over and wrestles the datapac out of your hands. She switches it off and tosses it back into the dusty crate. You huff and cross your arms over your chest.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No,” you agree. “Im from Arkanis. But even there we don’t have <em>slaves</em>.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fennec squats beside you, her elbows resting over her bent knees. She playfully taps your shoulder with the back of her hand and quirks a brow. “What’d I tell you—snooping doesn’t do anyone any good.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You roll your eyes and shrug, a frown still etched on your lips. Fennec sighs, rubs her chin and then reaches out to push a stray hair behind your ear. A flush blooms up your cheeks at the gentle touch. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You have a sensitive soul, Kitten,” she chuckles, poking at your cheek that you’re certain she can feel the heat emirate from. “You said you were from Arkanis—tell me about it. Why come to Tatooine?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your lips quirk in a tiny smile as you bat away her pointer finger, saving your cheek from another poke. “<em>Hey</em>—not everyone likes rain ok?” You huff. “Besides, Tatooine wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She nods. Unsure what exactly to tell her--a silence ensues. It’s not terribly awkward but it’s enough that makes you jumpy and itching to move on from this room now stained with information you weren’t prepared on finding. You stand suddenly, brush yourself off and mutter under your breath about finding something less…<em>heartbreaking. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fennec jumps up as well and when you leave the room her hand clamps over your shoulder. She spins you around and levels her gaze onto you. “You’re free to leave whenever you like. You know that right?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your brows furrow. “I <em>know</em>—don’t worry, I <em>want</em> to stay.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her head bobs with a satisfied nod. “We’d miss you if you left. You’re nice to have around.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You blush again and mumble out a thank you, shooting off into another unexplored location to escape Fennec’s knowing smirk. <em>Maker</em>—you’re embarrassing.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>                               -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba returns later that afternoon—the shadow of his familiar figure stretches around the curved stairway, the purposeful stomps of his boots against the carved steps following with it. Your heart flutters within your chest, like a distressed creature with wings as you jump from your makeshift seat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You come face to face with Boba. Or, <em>helmet</em> rather—<em>whatever</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The smell of hot metal and dry air sticks to him as he paces closer, closing the small gap that separates him from you. You’re frozen beneath the heavy weight of his stare behind the void like black of his visor as he plants himself firmly before you, close enough that his cuirass could brush your chest if he puffed out his own chest.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hi…” You smile, a fragile vale of uncertainty blanketing the pair of you—still attempting to feel out his mood, sort through the general gruffness of his personality and gage wether or not you could reach out and touch him. The helmet is a tricky thing to read and his body language gives nothing away. You swallow your nerves take a leaping risk.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let me see your face.” You murmur. You move your hands up to the edges of his helmet at a snail’s pace, giving him ample time to slip through your fingers—wedge a sharp thorn between whatever it is that you’ve built and name it for what it is.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He doesn’t choose that option. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a low hum, Boba dips his helmet closer to your outstretched fingertips instead. The metal is cool under your palms as they fold over the sides of the helmet and pull up. The metal whispers against his skin like wind through tall grass as the point of his chin peeks out, followed by his lips, his nose, and finally those golden brown eyes. They glitter with amusement as you release a shaky breath, the helmet the only thing acting as a barrier as you clutch it near your sternum. His mouth quirks when you blush and glance away—focusing on the little silvery nicks the green paint refused to cover. You rub your thumb over the blaster pockmark that dents the metal—you frown. You hope that wasn’t recent. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba gently pries the helmet out of your hands and sets it onto the armrest of his throne. He purrs your name and pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leading your attention back to <em>him</em>. Your eyes flit up his scars—your breath catching in your throat as he smiles.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hello, princess,” he says—the grit and timbre of this new nickname jumpstarting your heart to skip and choke on its own tireless beat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You roll your bottom lip between your teeth and shake your head. “Boba, I’m not—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He doesn’t let you finish your sentence—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba spreads his fingers over your jaw, tilts your head and swoops down to meet your lips in a dizzying kiss. Hard, hungry, victorious, <em>breathless—</em>like he’s spent <em>years</em> fighting and only now takes a moment to slow down—drown in the softness of your lips and skin. His hands claw at your arms, your clothes, your hair—like you’re the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the shadows of his past and some hidden horror that nips at his heels. He kisses like a man terrified that <em>this</em> will be brief, intangible and something that’ll abandon him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He trails after your lips when you break away—your lungs heaving for precious air. He doesn’t let you go far, ensuring your positioning by tangling his fist into your hair at the nape of your neck and scraping his lips up your cheek, enticing you into another kiss. You tilt you chin to meet him with equal fervor, whining as his warm tongue curls sweetly into your mouth. His existence fills your veins with liquid silver—evokes the bloom of crackling star fire beneath the cavity of your ribcage. Every thought starts with <em>him </em>and ends with your heart aching to burst into a million tiny shards.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The next time you part,  Boba is the first one to pull away. He cups your cheeks between his weathered hands and plants a tender kiss just below your hairline. You swear you can feel the skin buzz from the touch—like every atom in your being was solely created for him to command and conquer. You sigh and lean into his palm. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I missed you.” You admit with a small smile. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba leans closer and presses another kiss to your forehead. “And I you, little one.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I got worried, y’know,” you continue, your fingers tapping a trail up the front of his chest plate. You trace the repainted insignia with your fingernail and flash him a coy smirk. “You never called—thought maybe you found a new pretty thing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He grunts, shakes his head and sweeps a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. “<em>Hilarious—</em>my hands are full enough with you hounding me every five minutes.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You puff out your bottom lip and feign offense, mumbling some lame whine like a petulant brat. Boba snorts and crowds closer. He presses his gloved thumb between your furrowed brows, smoothing out the wrinkles and then cups your cheeks between both palms. You freeze as he carefully knocks the crown of his forehead onto yours—it’s <em>sweet</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>An excited smile splits when he moves his head to your right, the syllables of each word rolling off his tongue sweeter than spiced honey. “I’ll make it up to you, pretty thing,” he whispers by your ear, his warm breath disturbing the fine hairs there. “How does that sound, <em>hm?</em>”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That’s not even a question you would ever dream of denying—you quickly nod. “I’d like that.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba drops his hands from your face and peels himself away. His eyes trickle down your figure—calculative and analytic—planning out each move to pick apart the entirety of your being. “Take everything off.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You comply without a second thought—slipping free from the breezy cotton and scratchy poncho you stole from a storage room. The fabric pools at your feet in an unceremonious pile—leaving you bare for him. Despite the sickening dry heat that pollutes the air and causes beads of sweat to gather at your hairline—goosebumps rush up your arms under Boba’s piercing stare. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s eyes flicker to the throne. A feral grin tugs at his lips. <em>“Sit.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This time you hesitate. Did he…? <em>No</em>—you <em>must’ve</em> heard wrong— </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He quirks a brow and gestures to the throne. “Well? Are you going to listen?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your tongue slides over your chapped lips. “O-ok..I just—never mind…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Scrounging up some courage, you gingerly seat yourself onto Boba Fett’s throne. Chills race along the entirety of your body as the freezing metal seeps into your warm flesh. You squirm and beat away the urge to wrap your arms around yourself—he wouldn’t like that—probably would take it as some sort of insult anyway—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>All your current discomforts melt away in a fraction of a breath as Boba Fett lowers himself to one knee, and then the other. A king kneeling before his very own throne for someone like <em>you</em>. Someone who’ll be lost to the pages of history and the endless swirl of galaxies and supernovas—you’re nobody to the world, but to him you’re <em>everything</em>. You inhale a shaky breath as a strange stroke of pride alights through your body as he peels off his gloves and maneuvers himself flush against the edge of the throne and between your thighs.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba bows forward and slips his calloused hands around your ribcage to tug you closer. His lips land over your collar bone, slides his tongue over the protrusion then sinks his teeth into you there. You gasp as he slides lower, leading a trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake. Boba moves his palms, up and in to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples. A whimper escapes past your lips as he catches the pebbled bud between his lips, the hard enamel of his teeth scraping over it—meant to <em>tease. </em>Your nails dig into the fabric bunched around his neck as he moves on to suck your other nipple, the cooling saliva sending a chill down your spine as it dries.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core. You’re already wet—worked up and <em>impatient</em>. You roll your head back onto your shoulders and bite your lip. If you complain and tell him to <em>hurry up</em> you’re scared he’ll leave you like this—deny you that pleasure you’ve been craving for <em>days</em>.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It feels like ages before he moves on from your breasts, now smattered with bruises and his saliva, and carves out a blinding path down your sternum, your belly, then your navel with his tongue. Boba circles your bellybutton—you force down the ticklish nerves and stay still for him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You don't mean to jump as his rough hands drop over your knees. You barely get out the first syllable of an apology when his hands slip up your bare thighs, curl around the swell of your ass and <em>yank. </em>You squeak as the edge of the throne bites into your tailbone, the majority of your lower half forced to lean on Boba’s shoulders and his greedy hands. He kisses the inside of your knee—you jolt with an airy gasp. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba picks up his head and smirks. “Look at me when I taste you, little one.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Mouth suddenly drier than dust, you nod dumbly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He hums, satisfied with your weak response and continues on.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver. They sweep up towards the apex of your thighs, settling close enough to reach your aching center. You know he’s there—it’s impossible to ignore him—but you curse anyway when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They steadily work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Patience</em>, princess,” he rumbles, shifting his weight to better reach your cunt. “<em>Maker</em>—you’re dripping already.”   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There's a moment just before Boba commits, his face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, hot breath, anticipation gripping your chest. And then he licks a broad stripe from the base of your pussy all the way up to your swollen clit. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His mouth Is <em>searing</em>, his tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his head. He grunts against you as you drag him closer—greedy for everything he deems you worthy of. Boba’s mouth pinpoints around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter—it’s a struggle not to shut them completely. He asked you to watch after all… </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He then trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your entrance, skips over it completely to lick at the wetness dripping lower that threatens to pool onto the throne or the floor. He opens his mouth wide and hums in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Fuck</em>—Boba,” you cry, canting your hips into his mouth. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It's <em>perfect</em>. So fucking <em>good.</em> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The tips of his thick fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the fluttering ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness, glinting in the low light. With a smirk, Boba thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that he refuses to stray from. It leaves you <em>just</em>hovering along the sharp edge of oblivion, the catch of his knuckles and calloused skin along your walls pure <em>torture</em>. <em>Stars</em>—he’s going to be the death of you—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your hips arch into him, trying to urge him to go faster. Instead, he slowly retracts his fingers and removes his mouth. You gasp in frustration as your cunt clenches around thin air. It almost <em>hurts. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I told you to be <em>patient</em>,” Boba chuckles, massaging a warm palm along the outside of your thigh. “You’re behaving like a <em>brat</em>.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m—I—I’m <em>sorry</em>—“ You wheeze, trying to rope in some self control that fled a <em>long</em> time ago. Your wits are scrapped thin as you throw your hand against the back of the throne. You don’t care that he’s rendered you to a begging mess, your words slurred and hardly understandable. You're so <em>close</em> to diving off the edge—so near to those plush lips and weathered hands that’ll surely become your salvation. "Please! P-please—I need..." </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You're babbling as he drags his fingertips over your thigh, skims over your cunt, and traces a pattern into your opposite thigh. "Boba. <em>Fuck</em>. I pro-promise to be better—I can do it. <em>Please</em>—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He complies.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Two fingers are thrust up into your dripping cunt, curving so deliciously into something that feels like unrefined plasma bolts. His mouth dips down and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up <em>tight</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You're flying off you’re high, faster than a fucking speeder with tampered gears. You cum onto his tongue with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Boba keeps licking you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Stars implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jetfuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Boba, and feel the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your brain swims in hazy bliss and fuzzy pleasure as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it <em>hurts</em>. You're too <em>sensitive</em>. Your nerves are rubbed raw and you're still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. He takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It's <em>sharper</em> than a blade against flesh. Your thighs quiver around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves that wrenches a cry from you. Your orgasm floods through you veins, bursting and rupturing every cell in your being. This one is blistering—charrs all the way to the fucking <em>bone</em>. Your core pulses around Boba’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease into a dull throb. You whimper and push at his forehead because he's <em>still</em> licking at your cunt. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you <em>cry—</em>but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba leaves absolutely no time to completely float down from your high—you squeak as his hands shoot up to grab at your hips, wrenching you off the throne and all but throwing you onto the same floor he kneels on. You flash him a dopey grin, letting your legs fall open for his enjoyment—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Such a filthy princess,” he chuckles, extending a hand to cover your knee, bending it further out to expose more of your flushed cunt. “You taste sweeter than star cherries.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You preen at his compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It earns you an amused huff. Boba scrapes the hand resting on your knee to the apex of your legs, thumb and forefinger gently parting your delicate, slick folds. You bite back a keening whine, utterly exposed to him as he slips the hood back from the throbbing knot of nerves at the top of your slit.<em> Too raw. </em>Your pussy clenches involuntarily, causing everything from your toes to your hips stiffen. Boba hums in delight at his handiwork. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Stars</em>, Boba—<em>please…</em>” You beg, voice breathy and soft like whips of spider silk. Boba makes a sound that oozes with smug pleasure, teasing your sore clit with unadulterated glee. “<em>Please</em>,” you hear yourself whimper over your pounding pulse, shifting in his grasp and praying he’ll put an end to this sickly sweet torture.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Pretty little thing, begging for my cock…” He rasps, darkly threaded sin and the husky scrape of the gray sea licking up jagged, black rock. You’re certain he could talk you into unraveling at the seams, untouched and putty in his hands for him to mold and shape. Boba’s other hand sweeps up your sternum, his fingertips dancing along the mythosaur pendant coiled around your neck. He then curls his thick fingers around the base of your throat and ever so lightly <em>squeezes</em>. “<em>Poor baby</em>—all worked up after a few days…I’ll fix that for you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Before you can fully process, he grabs the swell of your hip and flips you onto your belly. The air from your lungs is knocked out of your chest, the abrasive sandstone bitting into the points of your elbows and patches of your skin and no doubt leaving behind irritated scrapes. You hear the shuffle of fabric and then Boba suddenly seizes your hips and arches them into his crotch, grinding the deliciously hard length of his cock through your wet folds. Throbbing and just as desperate as <em>you</em> are, Boba refrains from flinging you into another bout of teasing. He slicks himself up with your arousal and drags the tip of himself to your clenching center and sinks that first, glorious inch inside of you. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a low groan, Boba pushes in deeper, watching your tight hold flutter and accommodate his thick length. It’s the same as before during that night in the cantina—dreadfully full and all but bursting at the seems. The gentle rocks of his hips and gravelly praise eventually allow him to finally bottom out, his sharp hipbones resting against the swell of your ass as you shudder and groan. <em>Fuck—</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You can feel him in your fucking<em> guts. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba grants you a brief moment to settle and then—it’s <em>catastrophic</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your jaw drops in a silent scream when he pulls back, all the way to the tip and slams back into your tight heat. Boba’s hand tangles into your hair at the nape of your neck and and <em>pulls, </em>forcing your back into a sharp arch. The action leaves more of you open, somehow pressing in even <em>further. </em>He hits so deeply within you—<em>stars</em> it feels like he’s splitting you open and laying you bare. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His dark chuckle resonates above you—a bit breathy as he tames his own frazzled nerves. “<em>Shit</em>—that feels <em>good</em>. Doesn’t it, princess?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your incoherent babble makes him laugh as he gives your hair a playful tug, all the while he never stops thrusting in and out of you. You wiggle your hips, the slight shift makes it <em>ache</em>, and the sharp downward thrusts put delirious pressure on that patch of nerves that renders you <em>dizzy</em>. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s a tightly spooled cable, fraying and an inch away from snapping. Your gasping breaths pitch into airy squeaks as the fist twisted in your hair tightens, tugging your head back just a <em>bit</em> more.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba lurches foreword, the nip of beskar a frigid shock to the bare skin of your back when he lays over you, his elbows caging you in close. His head drops onto your shoulder blade, pressing sloppy kisses over the arch of your throat and slope of your shoulder—without warning he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck. <em>Maker save you—</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The feral drag of Boba’s teeth digging into your sensitive flesh skin makes you squeeze around his cock—Boba answers with a soft growl that vibrates against the skin of your shoulder. <em>Somehow</em> he fucks into you harder, his pace becoming brutal. Your nails scrabble against the floor, searching for some sort of anchor as you wail under him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s <em>too</em> much—<em>fuck</em>, you’re gonna <em>implode</em>. Pinned between the rough sandstone and the hand in in your hair, mixed with the sharp pain of his teeth marring your skin—you loose it. Sensing your peaking orgasm, Boba’s fingers wedge between your legs to toy with your clit. He rubs quick circles with two fingers as he purrs words of filth into your ear—how good his pretty thing is for <em>him, </em>how well you came for him, how <em>tight</em> you are. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>There you go, little one,” </em>Boba says, his words like a tendril of dark smoke. “Cum for your king.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His efforts are quickly rewarded as you shudder and lock up harder than durasteel beneath him. A blinding surge of vicious heat, knocks you clean off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs as your nails dig into the sandstone—trembling and grappling blindly for a foothold in your own head. The cold chest plate is a much needed anchor for the overwhelming intensity that threatens to drown you and bury you six fix under.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He bites down again when he cums, his hips digging into you with short, rough jabs. “<em>Fuck—</em>you take me so well.” You squirm, feeling his cock throb and spill into you, making the mess between your legs smear over your thighs. His thrusts stutter to a stop as he sighs deeply and pulls out, a mixture of his cum and your arousal spilling onto the floor. Boba huffs above you, drags a finger through your swollen folds and pushes it back inside of you. “Good girl.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You shiver—reduced to a useless puddle with no intent from moving off the floor as Boba’s weight moves away. You could sleep here—that’s something completely plausible you think. Nice, warm dirt—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba purrs your name—the sound piquing your interest enough that you overcome the heaviness that’s settled in your body and move your head. He’s returned to his throne, cheeks a bit flushed and his chest rising and falling to recover precious air. You watch as Boba peels off his cuirass with practiced ease, and lays it with care onto the floor. He murmurs your name a second time and pats his lap, coaxing you off the floor. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You happily slither onto his thighs, exhausted and all too eager to be swept up into the warmth of his arms. He grunts as you tuck your head under his chin and cuddle into his chest, relishing the rough scrape of his palms folding over your shoulder and the outside of your thigh. His soft breaths tickle the top of your head paired with the quiet, but steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your fingertips and ear pressed onto his sternum. Your eyes flutter shut and though a hushed silence falls over the room, there’s nothing to be said. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba tucks his nose into your hair and you smile, the slow speak of your heart unraveling into a lush garden of something new and brittle—like flakes of frost in the early morning sun. He’s more bruise than bleed nowadays—a wound closed then reopened and he promises nothing of a future beyond what you have in these moments. And yet—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. No One Like You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>well here we beeeee, some nice morning sex and a dash of softness before the next chapter which is a din x reader x boba !!!</p><p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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    <p>You wake to the low hum of the wind and grains of sand plinking against the thin glass. Some of the microscopic grains leak through the gaps in the mortar and pilfer into a tiny pile, lodged into the corner. You squint, grumble and turn onto your other side. <em>Too early to think about sweeping right now…  </em></p>
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  <div class="">
    <p><em>Kriff</em>—it’s hardly even <em>sunrise. </em>The edges of the horizon are colored an indigo purple, meshed seamlessly with the inky blue like a stubborn bruise, while the first red spidery, rays of Tatoo I crawl up the the sky. The planet is hushed—still at least for a couple hours more before the suns turn <em>searing </em>and you’re forced to roll out of bed, looking like a close relative of a slug—a distant cousin of the Hutts, if you will.</p>
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  <p>You smash your head into your pillow, and crack your eyes open a bit. Through the blur of sleep, you work out the curve of Boba’s chest, rising and falling with deep, even breaths. A smile tugs at your lips as you dig the back of your hand into your eye socket, clearing away the rest of the cotton like wisps of early morning, and half asleep awareness. A golden warmth seeps through your ribcage—Boba Fett rarely, if ever says in bed long enough for you to see him. Late to bed and early to rise—always off doing <em>something</em>.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sighing, your eyes trickle over the expanse of skin, exposed from where the thin sheet fell away—free from his armor and unapologetically naked. It’s hard to imagine the legendary warrior—the wrath and the war smoke for breath that he can wield at the drop of a hat when he looks like this. Lightly chapped lips ever so slightly parted, his dark lashes resting against his cheeks—no scowl to be seen. He’s breathtaking, all pliant and undisturbed with miles of brown skin, crisscrossed with silvery scars, begging to be kissed and touched—<em>worshiped</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You’re still discovering every inch of him, new marks and of scars from fights won and lost, the stories they tell (even if you make up the stories—Boba doesn’t like to share really). You know about the one on his pinky—got caught on the edge of a vibroblade when he was little. The one over his forearm where the end of his vambrace bit into his skin after punching through a bounty droid—he freely shared the history behind those. But you never dared to toe the line of a deeper horror that makes your heart ache for him—he’ll share in time and without pressure about his personal mysteries—maybe not ever, but you don’t mind. You’re grateful he cares about you enough to even <em>share </em>little tidbits of information. You don’t ever take it for granted.         </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your heart jumps with adoration as Boba shifts and curls onto his side—now facing away from you. With the movement, the muscles of his back ripples under his skin skin, desire sparking low and hot in your tummy, like stoked embers in a hot bed of coals. You wiggle closer to him, and nuzzle your nose into his back, your lips planting soft, whispering kisses over his shoulder and the juncture of his neck.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba stirs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Wretched creature…” He mumbles fondly, eyes still shut. His voice is still raspy and deep, rough and raw like the first rumble of thunder. You scatter kisses across the back of his neck, playfully nip at the shell of his ear, and down his shoulder blade. You curl a possessive arm around his naked waist and slot your hips against his ass, rolling your warm palms over his belly and the sharp protrusion of his hip.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Morning,” you whisper next to his ear. You tiptoe your fingertips down his hip and to his groin, a wry grin tugging at your lips when you find he’s half hard under your hand. It’s still early in the morning—sleep still threatens to drag you into fuzzy unconsciousness—but the prickles of arousal encourage you to continue. Boba still remains complacent, no doubt curious or just unbothered by your inquisitive touches—but you think, with a little nudge in the right direction, he’d be willing to indulge your cravings.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You suck in a grounding breath and cup his balls, rolling them softly in your palm. Boba’s small and barely audible groans rumble through the quiet room as you tease him slowly into consciousness with each undulation of your wrist and stroke of your palm. You lave your tongue over the raised skin of one of his scars lining his shoulder, and slip your fingers around Boba’s cock.</p>
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  <p>He’s hot and <em>thick</em> in your hand. <em>Perfect</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pause like this, simply holding the weight of him, appreciating the feeling of his length throbbing in your grasp for a brief moment. Mouth latched onto his shoulder, your teeth sinking in lightly, you start to roll your hand up and down his shaft. You bask in the stroke of pride, that you get the honor to touch and adore such a powerful man like Boba Fett, who you’ve got cradled in your hands before he’s even opened his eyes.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Inching impossibly closer, you mold the full length of your body against his side. The slope of your breasts pressing against his bicep as your stomach rests by his hip. You kiss his neck, the mingled tang of sweat and his own unique scent pouring over your tastebuds.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t stop…” Boba grunts, his eyes still glued shut. “…keep goin’, princess.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You exhale, a short, amused huff. Even when he’s barely awake, Boba Fett manages to dish out orders. You squeeze your hand around him, hard and slow, the exact way he told you he likes it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Stars</em>, girl.” He murmurs, his breathing becoming heavier as his hips begin to unconsciously twitch into your fingers. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You hook a leg around his, your cunt already wet as you stroke his cock, hardening to velvety steel. He’s already leaking, cock fully swollen with precum beading at the tip. You spread the liquid down his length, using it to help stroke him with a little more ease and far less friction. It’s really a job for <em>two hands, </em>but reaching over him is getting a bit awkward and uncomfy and <em>fuck</em>—you want to appreciate him fully. You let go of his cock and tug at his shoulder, encouraging him to lay flat on his back. His smile is your saving grace, a fragile moonbeam stark against his battered skin as you bunch yourself near his groin—your heart flutters. Boba watches with lazy intrigue as you take his cock in both hands and languidly begin to twist and stroke his hardened cock.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You never wake me up like this…” Boba muses. Liquid pleasure trickles from his voice like the ichor of molten gold—making your heart swell and pussy ache with gnawing hunger. </p>
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  <p>“You don’t sleep in.” You counter with a quirk of your brow. Before he can slide in a retort, you slip the skin of his foreskin back to rub little circles on the head of his cock with the pad of your thumb, just <em>barely</em> scraping the sensitive underside with your fingertip. Boba’s reaction is instantaneous, like a match to dry grass. He hisses a breath in through his clenched teeth and arches his hips upward. “Never gave me a <em>chance</em> to.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If you wake me up like <em>this</em> each time—I’ll consider it, precious thing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You don’t take his words to heart. You know it’s just a wistful dream—he has an entire galaxy out there to claim a stake in, and although that <em>yes</em>, you always want to wake up in his arms, you don’t retain any irritation about it. The sparing moments you have with him, you clutch to your chest like a widow hoarding her dead lover’s string of pearls—you try not to let absence stain the roof of your mouth and collect in the bones of your ribcage with tendrils of black soot and spiderweb. Instead you treasure the warmth—living inside this string of seconds and letting it fuel you for the rest of the hollow days to come.        </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Leaning over him while your hands still stroke his cock, you capture his lips, devouring and open mouthed. Boba cups your jaw, letting your tongue slide into his mouth and suck on his lower lip. He responds in lazy hunger—doesn’t pitch forward, but feverishly enthusiastic with molding your lips with his.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba grunts out your name, grabbing for you when you pull back and sit on your haunches, his cock twitching in your hand when you pause your movements. With a smirk, you sit just outside of his reach, and while normally he’d wrestle you back into your previous position, he allows it after you return your hands to his cock and resume. This time you lean forward while stroking him closer to your breasts, still bare from the night before. Bruises in the shape of his teeth mark the delicate skin and when you glance up you note the devious sparkle in his eyes upon seeing them. Boba inhales sharply as you lick your lips in a slow tease and then bob your head close enough to flick your tongue out to taste the bead of precum over his tip. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Encouraged by the low moan and a twitch of his thigh in response, you swallow him into the warm, wet heat of your mouth until the head of his cock is cradled by the soft tissue at the back of your throat. You start to bob your head and with a sharp curse in a language you don’t know, Boba buries a fist into your hair.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Maker—</em>” Boba snarls, throwing his head back into the pillow, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he clenches his teeth. “Are you—<em>shit—</em>going to let me cum in your mouth, little one?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pout and swipe your tongue around his tip, pulling upwards on his cock while you give the head a pointed suck. “<em>No</em>.” You return your lips to the base of his shaft and slide your tongue all the way back up to the tip. “I want you to fuck me.”   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His rolling laugh echoes through the room. Boba strokes a calloused finger down your cheek and taps it under your chin. “‘M tired…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You blink rapidly then furrow your brows. That was <em>not</em> what you were expecting. “<em>Boba</em>—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba snickers and tugs on a lock of your hair. “Ride me if you’re so <em>desperate</em>, princess.” </p>
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  <p>“<em>Fine</em>,” you snark, rolling your eyes to mask the pure giddiness that elates your chest. <em>You</em> get to be on top—a rare day indeed.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pushing yourself upwards, you straddle Boba, legs splayed on either side of his lap. You reach down to take his cock in your hand—and <em>Maker</em>—if he’d been hard earlier, he was stiffer than kriffing <em>beskar</em>now. Boba hisses sharply through his teeth, eyes trained onto your soaking cunt as you tease your clit with the head of his cock, wet with your saliva and arousal. Needy and not keen on denying yourself any longer, you guide him into your wet heat. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Two relieved groans rip free from the both of you, prickling pleasure ripping up your spine at that first exquisite stretch of the first upwards push of his hips as you sink onto him. No matter how many times you fuck him, you’ll <em>never</em> get enough of it—like injecting pure Spice into your veins. You hands scrabble over his chest, desperately dragging him into a kiss—you let him swallow your heavy moans into his mouth before he pushes you upright.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There you go, that’s it little one…” He murmurs, large hands on your hips coaxing you to slowly grind into him. “Take what you want—<em>fuck,</em> you’re so wet.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You take the hint, rolling your hips back against his as he steadily thrusts into you. You let out a breathy sigh at the feeling. Boba reaches a hand up, weathered and rough to toy with your breasts—lavishing them with attention as you control the pace of his cock, fucking languidly and without haste into your pussy. Your head rolls onto your shoulder as Boba pitches forward to pepper kisses along your jaw. He runs his tongue behind your ear, catches the lobe between his teeth and grumbles honey sweet praise between each searing press of his lips over your clammy skin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I still think you look better <em>under</em> me, princess.” Boba smirks, lifting his hips to meet yours as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thought you said you were <em>tired, </em>old man<em>.” </em>Your catty gripe earns an abrupt slap to your ass. You yelp and bite the inside of your cheek, keeping the edged insult you have at the ready locked away. You <em>know</em> better—  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t be a brat,” Boba chides, smoothing his palm over the stinging flesh of your ass cheek. If not for the cheeky grin lining his face, you’d take his warning more seriously.     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a huff you continue to roll your hips, an easy rhythm that’s still dressed in sleepy, early morning motions. Boba relaxes his head back onto the pillow, his eyes sliding shut as you take his throbbing length. Your eyes follow the little trail of sweat that beads in the dip of where his throat meets his collarbone. You clench around him—he’s <em>unfairly</em>attractive. A thought jumps to the forefront of your brain as you inhale shakily. You <em>may</em> or may not get murdered for what you’re about to do but—cowardice doesn’t make miracles and this might be the <em>only</em> chance you’ll get to do this…      </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your teeth clamp over you bottom lip as you tentatively sweep your hands up to his sternum—thumbs lightly pressing over the little dip of his throat, his pulse jumping beneath your hands. You gingerly increase the pressure— </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s eyes flick open, a dark coil of something dangerous flickering in his warm, brown eyes. Your heart flutters with something akin to panic when a feral grin stretched wide across his lips. He’s humoring you. “If you want to play that sort of game, little one…” He brings his hands up to your wrists and curls his large fingers over your palm, forcing your hands to <em>squeeze. </em>You feel his cock twitch inside of you. “Give me your all.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A deep thrill prickles through your entire body—something about the way your hands, dwarfed by his thick neck they’re wrapped around is…<em>well fuck. </em>He<em> trusts </em>you<em>. </em>And although you’re playing with an unbridled handful of fire, one false move and it’ll lick up your arm and consume you whole. It’s worth it though—<em>anything</em> for Boba is.        </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Keeping the same pressure he’s shown you, restricting the blood flow and not the breath, you begin to bounce on Boba’s cock. </p>
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  <p>As Boba is coaxed further into the waking world, his need for that rough jab of dominance spikes too. You don’t care if his lips are fatal, if you’re to be extinguished after he’s swallowed you whole. There’s no easy way to sever yourself from him—you’ve grown roots around his being, an extension of him—<em>his</em> little shadow with his name tucked under your tongue. An unraveling string that pulls, and <em>pulls</em>. The very essence of him meshes with the dissonant warble of your curious soul, reaching into the recesses of your chest like a bloody fist pushing at the ceiling of your diaphragm. You know nothing but <em>him</em>.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You settle on a rhythm on Boba’s cock that satisfies you both and let yourself fall into it. Boba can only marvel at you from below—all twisting hips, whining and whimpering with your hands around his throat—watching you come apart at the seems as you ride him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba, however, is not one to be outdone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He huffs out a curse, brings his knees up, and plants his heels into the mattress. The sudden change is enough to catch you off-guard. Your legs fall open as his hips push up, your grip loosening to a pathetic hold around his neck. When you come crashing back down on his cock, it’s devastating this time, somehow <em>deeper</em>. <em>Tighter</em> too with the new angle, and with the way your cunt clamps around him, you’re <em>certain</em> you’re gonna cum soon. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Like he senses your fast approaching high, Boba’s deft fingers wedge between your splayed legs to toy with your swollen clit—rubbing quick circles with the pad of his thumb, raspy strings of filth and rumbly grunts of your name filling the air between you. Even so early in the morning, you play straight into his hands—plucking at your pleasure with expert fingers. Like touching a live wire and living to tell the tale. And sure enough, his efforts are <em>quickly</em> rewarded as you cry and brace both your hands on his chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Stars—</em>” You wail. “I—Boba I’m gonna—”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know—I can feel you.” Boba hisses. “Cum on my cock, princess.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No sooner did the words tumble from Boba’s lips than you were spiraling down into a vortex of an orgasm that consumes you entirely. Your back arches, as your hips snap viciously against his to claw at that final bite of friction you <em>need</em> to set every single one of your nerves into a blaze of glorious light. At this angle, the taught skin of Boba’s abdomen scrapes sinfully against your clit with every rough buck of your hips, spots of lightning hot pleasure bursting behind your eyes. You cry into his mouth and tremble over him as your orgasm floods each vein, wrenching you off the precarious edge of madness and the living world. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As you wail his name above him, clutching at his shoulders, riding out your waves of pure electric pleasure, you feel Boba stiffen under you. Desperate for him to reach his own high, you lean forward and suck at his neck, sinking your teeth into the strained flesh. You’re still quivering with the aftershocks of your own visceral orgasm while you leave your final marks on him. <em>Sure</em>, you’re the only one who gets to see the tiny bruises—he’s always wearing his armor—<em>but</em>. But just the fact that you <em>know </em>the evidence of <em>you</em> stains his skin like paint to a blank canvas as he sits upon his throne or deals with the backwater scum that comes with seizing an Outer Rim throne--is…<em>thrilling.</em>   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He cums with a groan of your name on his lips, ropes of his seed coating your insides in a series of hot bursts as his cock twitches inside you. “<em>Fuck</em>. So pretty for me.” You clench around him.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soon the sharp jabs of hips come to a stop, your panting breaths mingling in the air. You run a shaky hand through your hair and tilt your head, focusing on the scenery just outside your window. The binary suns are peaking above the horizon now, casting the room and bits of your skin in shades of orange and hazy pinks. When you drag you eyes back to Boba he’s already staring back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your breath catches—lungs filled with all the things you’re too afraid to say while he himself chokes on his own secrets. With a smile you reach to cup his cheek, stroking over his smile line and the edge of his scar. “You’re pretty too, y’know.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His brows shoot up. Boba mumbles something under his breath and rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. A rosy hue blooms under his brown cheeks as more half thought excuses pilfer out of his lips. You chuckle and plant a soft kiss onto his forehead—<em>you should compliment him more.    </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“C’mere—“ Boba huffs, sitting up to wrap his strong arms around your waist. You giggle as he maneuvers you to the left, his softening cock still seated deep inside your cunt as he adjust you both into a more comfortable position to hold each other. Your leg is strung over his hip, your forehead tucked beneath his chin as he runs his calloused hands up your back. You wiggle, your nose scrunching up as you feel the slick of your arousal and his cum drip onto your thigh and onto the matters. You can still feel him—thick and hot in your sore cunt and while you’d rather just lay flat and massage your aching hips, he locks his arms around you. “Stay like this…just for a little longer.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You settle. You can do that.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s warm breath skims over the crown of your head as he combs through your wild mess of hair with gentle fingers. His other hand rubs affectionate patterns over the dip of your spine as you listen attentively to the steady thrum of his heart. By now you’re familiar with the ghosts in his chest that plant dead flowers in the crevices along his spine for each loss he’s suffered—each decaying stem a gravestone with names scratched deep into the marrow—each of them calling for blood and for <em>vengeance. </em>You know this without <em>knowing. </em>It’s the same reason that prevents him from speaking the words he feels for you into existence. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Love is a silly thing to try and explain anyway. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You sigh and touch your lips to his sternum. You shoot for something simpler—a tentative clue into the labyrinth of his heart. “Boba?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Hm</em>.” His chest vibrates with the sound. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Why me?” You ask, teeth rolling your bottom lip between them. “I’m nothing special.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He scoffs, his eyes rolling up to focus on a random corner as he formulates a response. Boba’s hands continue to lazily stroke you skin, and while there’s palpable tension in the air, you wouldn’t mind that much if he refuses to answer. He’s not a man a very many words after all. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your eyes start to droop, sleep unfurling into your unconsciousness by the time he responds.                 </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That night—in the cantina…” Boba begins, his voice a careful rasp—not exactly hesitant but <em>wary</em>. “When you looked at me…you weren’t afraid.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You suppose aloneness turns space and time golden and while you believe the tides of life has pushed him towards better things—there will always be reminders of his past. What he <em>had</em> is not what he has now. You hope to every long lost deity and newborn supernova that he can find solace in your arms—if you could you’d promise him a blistering-white crown of woven stars and eternity, but all you can truly offer is your bleeding heart, your soul, your lips, your <em>love</em>. You hope it’s enough. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You tilt your head, whisper your lips up his chin, tempting him into a tender kiss. He responds with a rumbling hum, cups your cheek and deepens the kiss. You pull away breathless as he rests his forehead on yours.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The coming days will be busy for me, precious thing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You sigh and try to mask the disappointed frown. “Are you going off planet again?”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba shakes his head. <em>“A friend is coming to visit."</em></p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Thing for Trouble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THIS IS A THREESOME YALL I WEKJRKEJWH IM SO SORRY BUT HERE WE BE WITH THE FILFTH<br/>a good ol boba x reader x din </p><p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, <em>more</em> podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p><em>Now</em>, don’t get it <em>wrong—</em>if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to <em>smother. </em>Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being <em>paid</em> to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy. </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the <em>second</em> trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. <em>Star cherries</em>.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. <em>Tempting</em> as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the <em>vast </em>array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a <em>purpose</em>. A once a year chance you <em>refuse</em> to let go to waste.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “<em>Ah!</em> I was wondering when you’d show, dear.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Finally </em>you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.       </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Granted, it <em>is</em> your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your temple crashes into something <em>agonizingly</em> hard. You swear you hear a quiet <em>bonk </em>when your skull collides with the mystery material and <em>fucking hell</em>—you probably have a concussion from the force of it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re <em>far</em> more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and <em>so</em>, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament <em>but—</em>kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t <em>also</em> get <em>trampled</em> by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—<em>you’re</em> familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into <em>me</em>—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe <em>this</em> is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--<em>great</em>, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Maker</em>—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be <em>compassionate</em>. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and <em>fuck</em>--now <em>you</em> feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s <em>dumb--</em>but hey, if it works, it works.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. <em>Deal</em>.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You smile. “Lovely.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like  a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but <em>still</em>. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>                                        -=-=-=-</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—<em>sickeningly</em> familiar with your own quirks and tells, <em>but</em>—  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. <em>Friend</em> could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—<em>you</em> weren’t the one offering to walk random people home. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to <em>both</em> sit on the throne but <em>no</em>—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re <em>allowed</em> to listen.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You huff. “I <em>know</em>—but lurking is fun.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “<em>Foolish, girl.</em>” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the <em>only</em> thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is <em>all</em> too quick to notice. “What is <em>this?</em>”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway <em>that</em> would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a <em>complete</em> lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft <em>hm</em>. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din tips his head in acknowledgement. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Din Djarin</em>…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—<em>a long story</em>. “<em>Sorry</em>—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. <em>Great</em>. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve <em>also</em> managed to sound like an impudent <em>child</em>. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—<em>bastard</em>. He thinks this is <em>funny</em>.        </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his <em>own</em>mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and <em>fuck</em>—that shouldn’t have been so…so…<em>hot. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a <em>slow</em> trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, <em>Mand’alor?</em>”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously<em>, neither</em>thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He <em>is </em>and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses <em>you</em>. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop <em>now</em>. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so <em>interested—</em>why not give him a show? After all, he <em>did</em> bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “<em>Fine</em>, as you wish, little one—go play.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but <em>stars</em>, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.      </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—        </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the <em>show</em>, <em>Mand’alor, ’</em>nd keep your hands to yourself."</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. <em>Bastard</em>. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into <em>challenging</em> him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. <em>Ok—you can work with that. </em>It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. <em>No touching</em>. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself <em>some</em> sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking <em>freezing</em>. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill <em>much</em> colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing <em>entirely</em> to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s <em>different. </em>You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface <em>slippery</em>. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds <em>perfectly </em>against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Shit—</em>feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fucking <em>hell</em>—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but <em>kriff—</em>who the<em> fuck </em>would ever be unhappy with <em>that</em> sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and <em>down—</em>disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need <em>more</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>You’re</em> allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “<em>Go on</em>.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.         </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his  calloused hand, is <em>truly</em> a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking <em>beskar</em>underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist.  Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He nods and utters a breathy yes. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Fuck yeah. </em>   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so <em>close</em>. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s <em>over</em>—    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It <em>feels</em> like he did. <em>Maker</em>—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet <em>fuck, </em>and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “<em>Please</em>—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I <em>need</em> my mouth on you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Stars</em>—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of <em>want</em>. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and <em>squeezing</em>. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from  your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy stubble, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his <em>eyes</em>—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such <em>ache </em>within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.      </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—<em>fuck</em>, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—<em>especially</em> right now.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost <em>curious</em> with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is <em>scalding</em>—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—<em>kriff</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Fuck</em>, you need more.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t <em>enough </em>for him. Like he <em>needs</em> to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going <em>nowhere</em>. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Stars</em>—Din. <em>Close</em>—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you <em>know</em> it must sting—at least a little bit. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. <em>Fuck</em>—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps <em>going. </em>   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Another one</em>—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour <em>more</em> of you. You can <em>feel</em> the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards <em>another</em> high.        </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a <em>filthy </em>princess<em>…”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “<em>Boba</em>—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “<em>Depraved creature—</em>cum for your <em>rightful</em> king.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is <em>blistering </em>as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Struggling to keep your eyes open, you <em>do</em> spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. <em>Fuck</em>—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.          </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t forget, <em>princess</em>—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to <em>me</em>.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards <em>too</em> <em>much</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone.<em>“Say it.” </em>     </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “<em>Please, </em>Boba! Please fuck me—I <em>need</em>it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably <em>his </em>despite the fact you’re <em>already</em>wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.       </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “<em>Fuck—</em>so wet for me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for <em>him</em>. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.   </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “<em>Maker</em>, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and <em>respond</em>. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice <em>again</em>.    </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “<em>Tell me—“</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“You! </em>It’s you<em>—“</em> You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m <em>yours</em>—“</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>There we go. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive <em>sore</em>. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>You should invite Din over more often</em>…you think, as you slip into content sleep</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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